Worst Demon To Ever Demon
by Areiton
Summary: I served a cause. Until I didn't. He became mine. I found him—and myself—in the inbetween.


I'm the worst excuse for a demon that ever demon-ed. Sometimes, when he's sleeping and I'm bored out of my fucking mind—which, happens more than you'd think, all things considered—I try and reconstruct it.

Where the fuck did I turn wrong, to end up here? I was Alastair's prize student, once. I was Azazel's right hand, and stood at our _father_ _'s_ side.

I was a fucking badass, the best of the best. Made all the other demons tremble in their meatsuits.

How did I go from Hell's favorite to…this?

He stirs, and I frown across the small space to where he's sleeping. "No," he whimpers, and I lean forward, smoothing a hand over his cheek.

 _No. Not yours, Luci_. "He's mine," I whisper-snarl, and maybe it works. Maybe it loosens the nightmares. Maybe it's only the cadence of my voice, as he twists in his sleep, nuzzling into my touch with a soft sigh.

I know where I went wrong.

It wasn't when I first met Sam on the road, in another meat suit, a million lifetimes ago.

It wasn't even when I possessed the great big ox and stole their father.

It was after he broke open the box, let Lucifer free. When I taunted him, while my father raised Death and he—he outsmarted me.

A fucking angel, and a nerdy one at that. He outsmarted me, and he could have killed me.

I saw it in his eyes, right before he used me to kill the fire.

He wanted to.

That kind of hate is fucking intoxicating.

It's what pulls me back to the damn blue eyed fluffy winged idiot. Every fucking time.

Not the affection that has built, because I take care of him.

Not the fact that he trusts me now.

The fact that he _once_ hated me.

Huh. Maybe I'm not the worst demon to ever demon.

* * *

He likes to be outside.

Which would be fucking fantastic—because I hate that damn hospital so much I would almost rather be downstairs with the new bastard king. (Almost)—but he's also a fucking mess. All the splintered pieces of his celestial brain, broken and broken and broken, until all that's really left is a fine dust of ground up glass that once made up the angel who tore apart Heaven.

Maybe it's a thing. All of the mighty fall.

Oh. Maybe that means Crowley's due a trip down the rabbit hole? How wonderfully delightful would _that_ be.

He likes being outside. Barefoot, his toes digging into the grass. In the garden, where roses and bees bob in the soft breeze.

Not that it's particularly noticeable—he's still a blank shell. He's always a blank shell.

Sometimes, I talk to him. About that time when things were clear. When he was good and I was bad and the lines were drawn.

When I didn't have this absurd desire to protect him.

And then it changes, when he wakes up.

He's so broken, it's infuriating. My urge to protect him, my willingness to kill for him—it bothers me. I should kill simply because that's _what I do._

Not for him. Not because that fucking bitch angel is tearing him apart and he's too broken to defend himself.

Except.

That's exactly why.

And then he's gone. And he takes a piece of me with him.

* * *

I don't remember being human.

Some demons, the young ones, the ones who haven't had nearly enough time on the rack—they miss it. Forget that being a demon means stripping away your humanity until all that's left is black eyes and pain and smoke.

They hate that part of themselves, for a while. Until even that gets burned away and it's just apathy and chasing the high of killing.

Sometimes I see that edge, in Dean.

Alastair carved him up so pretty.

And then the fucking angel pulled him away, and it kick started Armageddon and I don't want to care about him.

I should hate him, for helping shove Lucifer back in the box.

Except.

He makes me remember, what it's like. To be human. To be _more._

The infuriating thing is, I can't stay away. He got under my skin. I hate him for it. I tell myself and the brothers it's because I've got Heaven and Hell on my heels.

But it's not.

When I find him, it's not because of heaven or hell. It's not because of the Leviathan.

It's simply…because.

I miss the bastard. Simple and complex as that.

God, I miss the apocalypse. I miss how clear it was.

* * *

I find him, lost.

I find him, and sometimes, after, when Crowley owns me and tears me apart with slow precision, just to put me back together and do it again.

I hold on to the realization, then.

I don't just find him. I find _myself_ in that moment.

I told the stupid self-righteous psychos that I serve a cause. Since they pulled the plug on the apocalypse, I haven't had one.

Except.

That's not true.

And when he grins at me, those damn blue eyes bright and happy and so fucking ancient and innocent—I realize the truth.

This is my cause.

Not the Winchesters, or toppling Crowley.

 _Him_.

My broken angel.

How utterly ridiculous.

He pulls me down with him, and his knees brush against me, all dirty wet heat in the field surrounded by the dying sunlight. Bees buzzing fat and happy around us, and his face so full and happy that it makes my chest squeeze.

Demons don't feel.

But I'm a shitty excuse for a demon.

Maybe that's what about us fits, because he's just as bad at being an angel.

He's silent as the day closes around us, as the night comes alive with brilliant stars in the black above the fading line of fiery sunset.

There's a peace and give in the inbetween.

It's where I meet him. Where I lean in and press close, and he sighs into my lips, a startled, pleased noise that settles against my meatsuit, and deeper, against _me._

Nothing settles me quite like him.

That thought should scare me more than it does.

I want more. Want to press against him and drink down every noise he can give me. Want to swallow him down while his body writhes against me, pale against the dark night. Want to feel everything that makes him angel moving inside me, all that light against my darkness.

As his lips move over mine and his hands flutter like the thousand fireflies around us, and my tongue teases out all the noises and whimpers I never knew he could make—I want that.

I allow myself to want it.

And then he sighs, and it's a name.

It's not my name.

* * *

I'm a shitty demon. The worst demon to ever demon. Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

He doesn't know. His eyes blink sleepy and dazed at me when I pull away and I resist the urge to lick my lips.

He's my Clarence, my unicorn, my fallen angel who still cares so damn much it's almost nauseating.

But he isn't _mine._ He was only ever a loaner. And now it's time to give him back.

I smile, a bitter thing.

Sometimes, being the worst demon who ever demon-ed really sucks.

I don't want to do this.

But I do it anyway.

And now I'm here. Crowley's chew toy. It hurts. Every fucking day it hurts. Some days, the only thing that keeps me moving forward, keeps me hanging on is the sugar sweet memory of his smile in that field, and the honey taste of his lips, the indecipherable sighs, a tiny stolen piece of—something—lit by starlight and sunset fire.

There once was a demon tortured in hell, pinning for an angel who loved a human.

I laugh, when Crowley cuts into me, a high hysterical thing.

Worst demon who ever fucking demon-ed.


End file.
